


It’s I Against I and Me Against You

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Electrocution, Forced to Watch, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation, Takes Place During s15, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 21:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19093645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Outnumbered, Simmons makes a drastic decision to save Grif's life.But improvisation has never been his strongest suit.





	It’s I Against I and Me Against You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmateurScribes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmateurScribes/gifts).



Simmons’ dagger rested on Grif’s throat.

“I got him!” he said, hiding his nerve-wrecking anxiety behind the loud voice raised into an exclamation. Locking visors with Buckey, he waited for the Blue to lower his gun. A moment passed, but the weapon didn’t move away from Grif’s face. The panic had Simmons’ heart beating quicker and it made him say, “Temple would want him alive. Right?”

He could feel Grif stiffen in his grip. A sharp noise left his mouth but fortunately it didn’t have the time to turn into a real word before Buckey nodded. “Right. Heh, look who’s finally quiet now.”

“Gene has that effect on people,” Cronut added in a purr, reminding Simmons that they were still painfully outmanned.

Yet, his eyes kept searching for a way to escape. He’d hoped his desperate move would save them some time – save Grif’s head, at least. Simmons had watched from the shadows, frozen in despair when he saw the orange soldier held at gunpoint.

And Grif hadn’t stopped talking. The insults had been spat at Buckey until Simmons could see his finger shake against the trigger, and by that point Simmons had remembered Gene’s final scream and he’d seized a desperate opportunity.

“I’ll go, uhm, secure the prisoner,” Simmons said and began to drag Grif backwards.

He stopped in the middle of his path when his back collided with something hard and unmoving.

“Those fucking idiots got to the machine,” Temple growled, pushing Simmons away with an impatient shove. The maroon soldier stumbled forwards and bit his cheek in a sudden fear of cutting Grif by accident.

Temple hadn’t seemed to notice the prisoner yet, and he shook his head furiously while he spat out orders. “It’s over. We’re evacuating.”

“Isn’t a captain supposed to go down with the ship?” Buckey snorted.

“Well, it’s a good fucking thing this a power facility, Buckey, not a goddamn ship. If anyone is going to be chilling with the fish, it’s not me. Where’s Surge?”

Cronut shifted. The pink armor was charred after the tank explosion. “Uhm, he’s dead.”

“Oh.” Temple shrugged carelessly. “We all have to make sacrifices. Let’s get out of here while our _brave soldiers_ still function as meat-shields.”

“Does this mean we lost?”

“No-“

“We got the orange one, though.”

At Buckey’s words, Temple finally spun around. His muscles tensed at the sight of Grif, and Simmons thought of how the Freelancers had spoken of the armor lock.

But then the tension left Temple’s body, and it was replaced by a terrifying ease in his steps as he marched towards them. “Good job, Gene,” he said, dragging out the words. His visor was fully focused on Grif who jolted at the attention.

Simmons’ grip, however, kept him in place. “I-“ Simmons said, struggling to find the words. “I thought-“

“What a lovely second prize.” Temple’s helmet closed the distance and bumped against the orange visor before the leader of the Blues and Reds pulled himself away.

“Hello.” They all spun around to see Loco walk into the room, head tilted in a curious gesture.

“Loco!” Temple exclaimed, tone strained. “Good to see you didn’t get yourself killed. Let’s get moving before they remember your poor asses exist. Oh, and you too, Grif.”

“Is he coming along too?” Loco asked, and Simmons gulped when he realized the blue visor was staring straight at him.

“Of course,” Temple said as he marched towards the exit. “Grif is a welcomed guest.”

Simmons had hoped that this would have been the moment to run – that maybe they could slip away or find the others – but Cronut and Buckey had gathered behind him, and the sight of the enemies’ guns had Simmons pushing Grif forward.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Grif hissed at him, voice low enough for only him to hear.

“Improvising.”

“How’s that going?”

“Not so well.” The only reason why his hands weren’t shaking was due to the dagger pressed against Grif. Simmons swallowed before whispering, “We just have to stay alive until- until the others find us. Right? So if we-“

“Grif, I’m so glad you could join us,” Temple called over his shoulder as they rushed for the awaiting pelican. “Since we have to miss the grand finale, I suppose we’ll have to make our own fun.”

* * *

“Gene,” Temple called, barely piercing through Simmons’ myriad of thoughts. “ _Gene_.”

He jolted back into reality with a gasp. The inside of his brain had been safer, calmer. It’d been filled with opportunities to take Grif and run, to shoot Temple and save the day, to be the hero for once. But the truth was waiting for him, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth to realize that they are still surrounded, outgunned and Simmons’ acting skills couldn’t even get him through the high school drama production.

“Watch the knife,” Grif spat through gritted teeth.

Simmons angled the dagger further away from the man, keeping a watchful eye on Temple who kept circling closer.

The ship had taken off a minute ago, leaving behind a cold knot in Simmons’ stomach, and Grif’s hands had clenched into fists at his side.

“I’ll take over from here,” Temple said as he circled an arm around Grif to press a gun against him. “You help Cronut take off while I get Grif comfortable.”

“I-“

With a jerk, Temple had already pulled Grif away from him to lead him down the hallway. “Are you trying to sound that creepy or is it just something you were born with?” Grif snarled at him.

“It’s a talent.”

Grif looked over his shoulder and saw Simmons standing by himself in the shadows. A hand was reaching out for them, before a Blue soldier appeared to steal Simmons’ attention, and then Temple had pulled him around the corner and blocked his sight.

“I bet this wasn’t how you thought things would work out,” the Blue said. “But to be fair, neither did I.”

“Did you really bet money on yourself? C’mon, you gotta know you’re working with idiots.”

“True. But I’m fighting idiots too so let’s call it a fair fight.” The armored hand shoved him inside an empty room. “The cell,” Temple explained helpfully as the door shut behind them. “I thought of everything.”

The walls and floor were bare, with the exception of the pairs of heavy metal shackles. “Sticking to the classics, huh,” Grif said to conceal a sigh. At this point, Buckey’s bullet through the visor seemed like the painless solution. But he could appreciate Simmons’ attempt to keep them both alive, even if it misfired horribly.

“Always,” Temple said with a smile audible in his voice. “Now, take off your armor.”

“What about your fancy remote?”

“Your dear friends stole it,” Temple hissed and raised his gun another inch. “With the help of that reporter. So now we have to do it the old-fashioned way. So get comfortable. You’re gonna stay here for a while, after all.”

“Are you gonna look away or…”

“No, I’ll enjoy the sight.” The gun was shaken in the direction of the chains. “Get going.”

Grif took his time to pry all the armor plates off, letting them drop to the floor with a clank. The weapon never strayed away from him, and while he did doubt Temple’s aim, he didn’t dare to take the chance when all it required was the pull of a trigger.

“On the ground,” Temple ordered next.

“Really?”

“I’m done taking my chances. Luck hasn’t really been by my side today, sadly. All the way now, Grif. Face down.”

Without the helmet to hide any expression, Grif had to count on his poker-face as the cold sensation against the back of his skull let him know exactly where Temple’s gun was. “Keep still,” Temple ordered before locking the shackle around his ankle.

“This feels like the beginning of a cliché,” Grif said as he sat up. The floor was freezing beneath his palms. They could at least have dropped a mattress or some hay like in the movies. “Medieval torture and all that. No one ever expects the Spanish inquisition.”

“Did you expect _me_?” Temple was crouching in the other end of the room, head tilted to the side. “Did you expect _this_? I suppose that’s a cliché, too. The villains lose, the heroes win. No one questions how many they killed in their path.”

The chain rattled when Grif pulled his leg closer to himself. “So what’s the point of this?” he asked. “Instead of the bullet through my brain. Not that I’m complaining – I’ve seen some pretty bad reviews on death and all that.”

The cobalt shoulder moved in a careless shrug. Grif remembered Church and his snark, but Temple’s movements were too erratic, too twitchy to ever live up to the doppelgänger that had been Grif’s friend.

“Does there have to be a point?” Temple lifted his hands towards the ceiling where a camera was hanging, much like a snake watching the movements of its prey. “It’s _over_. You guys won, congratu-fucking-lations. This is the epilogue, I suppose. We only have a little time left to secure our story. Better make it amusing.”

“See, I still understand nothing.”

A finger moved in Grif’s direction, mimicking a gun aiming at a victim. A soft laugh escaped Temple’s mouth. “Well, we never really had the time to get to know each other. You told me, heh, what were your words again? To shove my offer up my cobalt ass?”

Grif grunted in amusement at the memory. He’d been too focused to be terrified then, and the almost electric energy that had carried through him at the thought of his friends had kept him eager, fearless. He’d faced Temple at gunpoint and had laughed at the ridiculous idea of joining their team.

He’d already left one team and regretted it. He’d learned his lesson, and he would never settle with a bunch of maniac copy-cats. “Oh, I remember that,” Grif said. The disappointed look on Temple’s face had been a comfort while they waited for Locus in the cells.

“Really?” Temple’s tone was a tad too sharp. “You seemed a bit, well, out of your mind.”

The jab was carefully intended, judging by Temple’s cold chuckle, and it hit like a spear in Grif’s gut.

He ducked instinctively, but quickly regained his posture. Without his armor, he had to stay in control. “So, what, you’re going to give me a second chance?”

“Oh no, that’s a bit too late, don’t you think? I mean, after all, you destroyed the plan I spent years on carefully crafting. I spent blood and tears and do you even know how much it costs to build an underwater lair?! And for what?! For Biff!”

Grif froze. “Huh?”

But Temple didn’t hear him. All sound was drowned in his laughter; pained and loud, echoing against metal walls.

When he fell quiet, it was deafening.

“They say love is a slow self-destruction,” Temple finally said, voice piercing like a dropped needle.

A tightness had gathered in Grif’s chest, and it ached when he forced himself to spit out, “Okay, just who said that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Shakespeare?”

“And you’re sure you’re not quoting it wrong?” he asked again, rolling his eyes.

In a slow movement, Temple’s fingers unlocked the latch under his chin. When the helmet hung limply from his hand, the pale face turned towards Grif.

He was feeling like shit, but Temple looked like it.

Thin lips were pulled backwards in a strained smile. “So, Grif, tell me who you love,” Temple said, voice smooth like a purr.

“What’s this – a seventh grade’s sleep-over?” Grif shifted, trying to get used to the intensity of the steel eyes watching his every movement. “’sides, you got it all wrong. Only thing I love is eating and sleeping.”

Temple nodded. “Simple man.”

Licking his lips, Grif said, “Exactly.”

“Very simple needs.”

Grif would prefer never to agree with Temple on anything, and the sly smile on the man’s unmoving face had him hunch his shoulders. “…Right,” Grif said, looking towards the door in vague hopefulness.

He could hear the bones pop when Temple suddenly stretched his arms, breaking his imitation of a statue. “So just what do you think will happen from here?” Temple asked. The day’s battle had left its traces on his face as well; the same exhaustion Grif felt was evident in the sharp lines around his eyes and mouth. “Please do guess. You’re my amusement, after all.”

“I don’t know,” Grif answered truthfully. “The others will come and save my ass? Things usually end well for us.”

“You really think they’ll come rescue you?” The mocking snort at the end of Temple’s question was unneeded.

But Grif had the upper hand, even if he couldn’t let Temple know. “Who knows,” he said slowly and wondered what Simmons was doing at the moment. “They might be closer than you think.”

Temple laughed as he stood up. The sound was soft but condescending enough to make Grif bristle. “Just so we’re clear,” Temple said in the doorway, “You’re going to die in this room.”

* * *

Simmons couldn’t stop pacing. He walked down the hallways, trying to get a mental overview of the ship. His real goal was to infiltrate the control room, but that had proven impossible due to Cronut having locked himself in the room.

Buckey and Loco kept walking around aimlessly (the former trying to crack mean jokes about Tucker, the latter talking about how Caboose should remember to close the door, whatever that meant) and Simmons was doing his best to avoid them. The situation was horrible enough already, and the last thing he needed was getting his cover blown.

He tried to search for Grif and Temple, opening various doors with little success. He’d almost yelled in victory when he’d stumbled across the supply closet, but he’d swallowed the bitter disappointment when it’d turned out to be locked. His hopes of finding an abandoned gun seemed too high. He’d have to stick with his dagger. Outnumbered. In space.

Simmons was still trying to calm down his shaking hands when he noticed a blue color in the corner of his eye.

“Temple,” he whispered, unsure whether to run for him or to stay back.

But Temple knew where Grif was, and that had to be Simmons’ priority.

“Oh, Gene?”

Simmons almost choked on his own tongue in a surprised stutter when Temple suddenly turned towards him. The leader of the Blues and Reds didn’t slow down, however, but continued walking down the hallway, expecting Simmons to follow.

With no other choice, Simmons did exactly that.

“Cronut needs you in the control room,” Temple said. For a second, he was slowed down by a closed door, but then it slid open to reveal Buckey on the other side. The man had been busy shaking-

Tucker’s sword.

At least that meant the others would come for them. You could count on Tucker for two things: to bow-chicka-wow the moment a girl would cross the street, and to brag about his sword at any given possibility. And he couldn’t quite stab without his weapon.

Tucker would come for it, kick ass, and they would be rescued. They just had to last long enough for the rescue part.

“I can’t get this stupid thing to work,” Buckey complained as he slammed it against the wall. Simmons tried not to wince as the abuse of technology.

“Go watch the prisoner,” Temple barked at him. “Keep him entertained. I don’t want him resting just yet.”

“I can do that,” Simmons offered. Right now everything sucked, but that was the natural state of things – except that he could have Grif with him. If they could both work on this situation together, they might be able to escape on their own and avoid having to thank Tucker for the heroism.

Temple’s head snapped towards him. “What did I just tell you?” he hissed. “Cronut asked for you. Are you fucking deaf?”

“No…”

“Then get going. You too, Buckey. And Loco – come here. I need your help to spice up a toy…”

* * *

“Do you remember the coordinates to get back home?” Cronut asked when Simmons had finally dragged himself to the control room, looking over his shoulder the entire time to catch a glimpse of Buckey disappearing in the opposite direction.

The thought of him alone with Grif…

“Armada 8 isn’t on any maps,” Cronut continued. “So I really need your help.”

Simmons shook his head. “I, uh-“ A confused head tilt in his direction had him bite his tongue. He had a role to play, and too much to lose. “Wouldn’t it be stupid to go home? It’d be the first place they’ll look.”

“Oh. That’s- that’s a very good point. Where should we go then?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere else.”

“Far, far away then,” Cronut said, nodding. “Where we can never be found.”

“Exactly.” The word had barely left Simmons’ lips before he froze in place. The realization was like a lightning strike. “Wait…”

* * *

“It was actually Cronut’s,” Temple said as he let the collar dangle from his fingers. “That man has some strange preferences. But at least he knows how to have fun.”

“You’re all fucking weird.”

The chain dug into his skin when he scrambled backwards. He winced, and the pain only increased at the thought of how much Temple must be enjoying the situation.

“I had Loco spice it up a bit,” Temple explained as he looked him over. “We had some old blueprints lying around, just in case. It was a simple procedure, really. Buckey, help keep him still.”

Grif tried to get the satisfaction of making the bastard go down, but his well-aimed fist against Buckey’s knee was blocked by the armor plate. The only thing he achieved was scraped skin on his knuckles.

For what felt like half a day, if not more, Grif had been forced to listen to Buckey’s complaints and insults. The guy liked his own voice to the point where he could beat Tucker in ego-trips. And the Blue definitely seemed to be enjoying this situation too much.

Buckey twisted his hands behind his back, adding pressure until Grif swore he could hear his wrists crack. But he could almost forget the pain when Temple’s fingers buried themselves into his hair, shaking his head until his neck groaned from the strain.

“It’s funny,” Temple said as he tried to wrap the collar around his throat with one hand. “I had them rotting in their cells. And armor, heh. Just like planned. And then you show up and everything went downhill. I suppose I could look the other way. Turn your other eye for a cheek and all that. But that would be anti-dramatic.”

“I picked you for a drama queen,” Grif hissed when something cold pressed against his neck.

Temple finally let go of his hair, only to use the hand to tighten the collar. A panicked gasp broke Grif’s façade, but soon his instinct kicked in as he struggled to breathe. The pressure around his windpipe was unforgiving as Temple added another finger beneath the collar, pulling.

“Simple needs,” Temple said again, making him recall their earlier conversation. Finally, he loosened the collar to lock it.

Grif gasped as air was allowed inside his lungs again. “Let me guess,” he groaned, “this belonged to Crount’s fursona? Donut usually goes with naughty wolf.”

 “Cronut is a feral fox,” Temple snorted while signaling for Buckey to let go of Grif.

“You’re the one who should be restrained,” Grif muttered under his breath. His fingers traced along the leather pressed against his throat, flinching when they found a small box attached to the collar. It wasn’t a surprise; he’d figured that Temple wouldn’t stick with talking his ears off. With a small gulp, he let his hands fall. The cold touch against his throat made him shiver. “So, torture?”

In his hands, Temple held a remote. The smile he sent Grif was devoid of happiness.

“Can I have a go?” Buckey asked, reaching for the device.

Grif’s fingers flew upwards again in an attempt to find the lock before the button could be pressed.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Temple hissed at Grif, holding up the remote for him to see. “Or I’ll make you weep for your precious team. Besides, it won’t come off. Not without my key. So drop it.”

“…I guess you want your ‘yes’ now,” Grif muttered as he retracted his hand. “If that’s what this whole thing is about.”

“Nah, we’re just bored,” Buckey said.

Temple tilted his head. “But I am curious. What would your answer be?”

“With or without the collar?”

With a soft chuckle, Temple lowered himself to the floor. He took his time to fold his leg into a comfortable position before addressing his teammate. “Give me and Grif some private time. I’m sure you can make your hide useful somewhere else.”

Buckey’s presence had been unwanted but the thought of being alone with Temple again wasn’t an improvement. With a small prayer that Simmons was having better luck with whatever plan he was working on, Grif leaned against the cold wall.

The day’s events were catching up with him quicker than he could escape from them. He’d run too much today – even without considering the Methshrooms. Hell, it’d probably been more than a day. Hard to tell when stuck in a cell without daylight and some annoying asshole keeping you awake.

Bruises were forming all over his skin, evidence of the stray bullets that had hit him. This was worse than a day with Sarge’s training course, and those always required near-death experiences involving a shotgun.

He wanted to sleep. Maybe now, knowing he wasn’t stuck on Iris, he could get through a night without nightmares. But on the other hand, the situation he found himself in was pretty much a nightmare on its own.

There was always time for a nap, but there was still a system to it. The natural state of being always left room for a quick nap – with enough flexibility to make it last longer should the surroundings allow for it. After training with either Wash or Sarge yelling at him, he was owed at least one nap. Two if they had forced him to do press-ups again. After lunch he deserved a nap. After minimum 9 minutes of Simmons bitching about whatever was bothering him, Grif had earned another. And those were just a few examples.

On Iris he’d run out of excuses to take naps. There’d been no change in surroundings. He’d just been tired, and that had been reason enough.

Eventually, he had needed an excuse _not_ to nap.

But now – after travelling to Earth, crashing a ship, eating five Methshrooms, breaking the sound barrier, puking, a firefight, being held at gunpoint, being held at dagger-point or whatever it was called by _Simmons_ , being kidnapped, listening to Buckey for hours, then Temple’s monologue, then a fucking collar – Grif deserved a long, long nap.

The buzzing inside his skull confirmed this, and he closed his eyes to find comfort in the cold touch of the wall. He knew Temple wasn’t done speaking yet – he doubted the man could ever grow tired of his own voice – but at this point he didn’t care what he had to say. What did it matter? He couldn’t escape from here. He couldn’t stop the torture from happening.

The only thing he was in control of was his eyelids and he let them fall. His chin had just made contact with his chest when the pain set in, burning and unforgiving.

His muscles locked in place, tormented by the electricity flowing through him. It only lasted a second, but it was enough to leave him breathless, gasping for air as he shook in agony.

“How rude,” Temple tsked. “Falling asleep on me. We can’t have that, can we?”

* * *

There was no proper balance. When surrounded by the Blues and Reds, Simmons would be anxious – what if they spoke to him, and he messed up and blew their cover? But when he couldn’t find any soldiers, another wave of anxiety would take hold of him – what were they doing?

Temple and Buckey had been gone for too long, and he knew it had something to do with Grif. He would have asked Loco for more information on the project the Blue had mentioned, but there was something about the way he looked at Simmons that had his skin crawling.

_“Is he coming along too?”_

Simmons had a feeling he hadn’t been asking about Grif.

But if Loco was anything like Caboose, perhaps he wouldn’t be a threat at all. That would be one less problem to deal with. Still too many to go.

When Buckey finally showed up, curses muttered under his breath, he headed straight for Simmons. “Temple kicked me out!” he yelled, swinging Tucker’s sword against the wall again. “And he hadn’t even begun screaming yet. Why can’t we have some fun? Our day sucked too.”

“Why would- why would Grif be screaming?”

The Blue shrugged. “Because torture sucks? C’mon, don’t pretend you don’t want to watch. This has to be your style, right? Do some experiments on how many volts it takes to fry a brain.”

“Wh- what?”

“Too bad Temple is in his mood again. I mean, at least bitches keep it on schedule. Temple’s just unstable. I wouldn’t recommend disturbing him right now.”

Simmons tried to swallow, only to discover that his mouth had gone dry. Not for the first time that day, the thought occurred to him that it would be so much easier to just be a prisoner, too. He could stay with Grif that way. Be with him as Temple unfolded his craziness. They could wait for a rescue together.

But he was free, and Grif was being tortured. That left him with the responsibility of trying to save both of their lives. He needed to try. He needed to do better.

“And I bet you want to let off some steam,” Buckey said, pointing his stolen sword at him. When Simmons didn’t respond immediately, he tilted his head. “You know, for what they did to Surge. I sorta expected you to be all broken-hearted. Or to develop OCD or something.”

“Oh yeah, it’s- it’s tough. My heart hurts. The world will never be the same. We should buy a bouquet for the burial. Where was Temple again?”

He was aware he was speaking faster and faster, but he couldn’t hear his own voice: his heartbeat was a thundering, fast-paced rhythm that drowned out any other sound.

Buckey paused.

Simmons could feel his glare through the visor, hot and piercing, and he laughed nervously as he tried to come up with an excuse. The laughter died as he couldn’t find the right words to begin with.

“You’re being weird,” Buckey finally said.

“No-No, I’m not. You’re being weird. Pfft.” Simmons laughed again: the nervous sound simply crawled its way up his throat. “I’m just tired,” he said. “I haven’t been sleeping much with all the stuff we’ve been doing… Those Reds and Blues, huh. Really- really makes me want to kill them. Urgh, the bastards. Yeah… I’ll just go to sleep now.”

“Right,” Buckey said. He was still staring.

“So goodnight,” Simmons said as he passed him. “You dirty Blue, heh.”

“…Wait, has anyone seen Lorenzo?”

* * *

Simmons couldn’t sleep. But he hadn’t planned on resting. Not only did the armor make it uncomfortable, he knew this was his chance.

He’d curled into a ball in order to turn his back to the Blues and Reds that would occasionally share the room with him. Cronut had spent half an hour crying fake tears for Surge and reciting Sharpay Evan’s monologues as he swore revenge on the Reds and Blues.

Loco made a single comment about owing Caboose some batteries, and Buckey told him to shut up and forget about it. He then stayed for a while but suddenly left again, saying he wanted to see if Temple was done being selfish.

Cronut was breathing softly, with a gentle snore that reminded Simmons of all the nights he’d spent in Red Base. He wondered if he’d see Donut again-

But he didn’t have time for such thoughts. He sat up slowly, trying to get out of the room without waking up Cronut or Loco. If he could get to the control room, it would be the first time he could mess with the course on his own. He could send their coordinates or maybe he could manage to call the others, send an SOS-

The screams had him stumbling down the hallway.

It was faint, muffled by the walls, but he could recognize the voice anywhere.

“Grif,” he whispered and took off running.

The sound was better than any GPS, and he slid on the floor, barely managing to stop in time to slam a fist against the digital keypad. The sight that awaited him almost had him fall to his knees.

“Oh hi, Gene,” Temple said, sitting cross-legged in the folding chair he’d dragged into the otherwise barren room. “I suppose you want to try, too.”

Buckey was standing next to him, holding a remote, and his visor was turned towards the floor where Grif lay sprawled. He was panting, Simmons could hear him gasping for air as he curled in on himself.

Simmons didn’t understand; he couldn’t see what was wrong, there was no sign of blood-

“Buckey, let him have a go,” Temple ordered. Without his helmet, Simmons could see how his dark eyes narrowed.

The remote was pressed against Simmons’ hand but he’d lost all sense of feeling. Everything was numb when Grif’s head turned towards him, revealing a pale, sweaty face and eyes widened in panic, staring straight at him.

The device clattered against the floor where Buckey was quick to snatch it back up. “I’ll just do it,” he said and pressed the button.

Simmons focused on Grif’s toes, out of all things. Stunned, he watched them curl, feet twitching as if trying to turn themselves inside out. He could see the muscle near Grif’s ankle, right where he had a scar from the rockslide on Chorus. He’d tried to reach for his hand as he fell, Simmons remembered.

Grif groaned when the electricity left his body, and he slumped, sinking in on himself.

Temple’s eyes were set on Simmons. “Gene’s turn.”

“I…” He couldn’t feel the remote pressed between his fingers. He could barely keep it in his grip.

A sound escaped Grif; a whine, small and barely audible, as if he was trying to hide the pain. He twitched his fingers, slamming the back of his head against the floor, and in the process he bared his throat, revealing the dark thick collar attached to it.

Simmons tried to lunge for him, metal fingers outstretched to rip it off him.

Buckey’s fist hit him across his visor. It stung despite the protection, and Simmons’ mouth was filled with a taste of metal. It left him stunned as aggressive fingers pulled the helmet from his head.

“Poor, poor Gene,” Temple sang as Buckey’s armored fist hit him again, and Simmons didn’t even have the time to complain about the pain in the back of his head before his vision swirled away into a dark void.

* * *

Smell was the first sense that returned to him. Simmons groaned and felt his face scrunch up when the sour smell hit him; a mix of sweat and piss that reminded him of the chaotic moments after a grenade had exploded too close to his team, and he’d awakened to the sound of strangled cries, wounded soldiers sobbing over mangled bodies.

But when he finally managed to pry his eyes open, he only saw Grif. His cheek was pressed against the floor – in any other given day, it would have been resting against a pillow and Grif’s pupils would have been small with sleep instead of big in panic.

Simmons saw the warning in them. He knew Grif well enough to communicate quietly, though it was a rare occasion.

It all came back to him now, and he craned his neck to see that Buckey had disappeared. Temple was still lounging in his chair, however, and his hands were clutching the remote.

It occurred to Simmons that his armor was gone, leaving his sore limbs unprotected. By instinct, his hands flew to his throat, expecting to find a heavy collar attached. But he was surprised to find no such torture device. It was a small relief, however; Loco might be busy building one for Simmons right now, or maybe Temple has something else in mind. Something worse.

When he sat up, the chain clanked against his metal leg.

“I can’t tell if that was stupid or genius,” Temple said when he gained eye-contact with him. “But it was the same thing with Gene. Man was an idiot but he had his uses. And you came so far… but what are you going to do now, I wonder.”

“I-“ Simmons said but trailed off. His eyes darted to the side, watching the broken heap that Grif had been reduced to. He gulped before finding his voice again. “But that’s up to you, isn’t it?” he asked testily.

“True,” Temple said, letting the remote glide back and forth between his hands. “Slow and steady gets the worm. I have my prize, after all that effort. Not what I pictured, but you two are… something, I guess.” He clasped his hands together, leaving the remote in his lap, and the noise was sudden enough for Simmons to jerk in surprise. “I’ve already talked Grif’s ears off about my motives. We really got closer to each other, didn’t we, Grif?”

“Asshole,” Grif muttered, curling in on himself.

Temple didn’t seem to care that his back was turned towards him. “Such an intriguing man. I asked him about what he loves, and he said – can you believe it – that his only loves are sleeping and eating. But, _oh_ ,” Temple continued, eyes drifting towards Simmons again, “You probably _can_ believe that. Seeing how you and your friends kept complaining about his habits.”

Simmons bit down on his tongue to deny him an answer.

“Anywho,” Temple continued to break the silence, “as far as I’m concerned, you two still need to figure out why you’re here.”

“Don’t touch our quotes,” Grif hissed. “You’ll just mess them up.”

Temple shifted and Grif flinched, expecting the button to be pressed. But the man merely smiled at Simmons. “Your little journalist friend never tattletaled on me, did she? Well, story time, I once had someone I loved. An orange soldier. Much like you, Simmons. I guess we have something in common there! Perhaps we should have been each other’s doppelgänger – except I’d never do anything _that_ reckless and impulsive. I plan my moves.”

“But- but we didn’t kill your friend-“

“But Carolina did, and so did the UNSC, and haven’t we had this talk already? It’s too fucking obvious where your loyalty lies. ‘sides, what else are we going to do? We’re waiting for your friends, after all. Nothing to do but entertain ourselves. And you so rudely interrupted our fun. But I won’t cheat you. Here.”

The remote was thrown at him, and the movement was too sudden for Simmons to catch. It hit his arm before clattering against the floor. Simmons stared at the button and wondered if he could destroy it before Temple killed the both of them.

But judging from the pistol strapped to Temple’s thigh, he doubted it.

“You do realize I’m not Gene, right?” Simmons said slowly. “I don’t want-“

“Well, you have to. Life’s unfair, cry me a river. Besides, you have a role to play, right? So pick. It. Up.”

Grif was watching both of them from his corner, and his eyes kept darting back to the remote, glaring at it as if it was a venomous snake about to jump him. The truth wasn’t that far off.

“N-no,” Simmons said, crossing his arms for emphasis.

“Shock him once or I’ll do it twice.”

Simmons looked at Grif for reassurance; an unfair move, he supposed, since the heavyset man was the one awaiting their mercy. The mismatched eyes were staring at anything but Simmons.

“D-does it mean you won’t use the remote again if-“

“It’s your turn,” Temple hissed. “Press the fucking button or I’ll triple the amount.”

“But-“ He tried to protest again, but when Temple suddenly reached for the remote, Simmons reacted by lunging forward, snatching it to hold it against his chest. The chain barely allowed the movement, tugging at his ankle. “I’ll do it,” he said quietly.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Grif brace himself, inhaling sharply before holding his breath. Simmons turned his head to stare at the floor instead. He didn’t have the courage to face the pain he was about to cause.

The sound was heartbreaking enough. The moment he pressed the button, there was a sharp hiss and then a broken groan.

Simmons had closed his eyes, unable to meet Grif’s glare.

Temple’s voice cut through the room. “Again.”

“But- but you said-“

He was cut off by Grif who tried to stand, but his limbs shook too much, and he ended up falling against the wall. “S’not what you told me,” he snarled against the metal. “Where the fuck is that justice you keep rambling abo-“

“Shock him once or I’ll do it ten times,” Temple ordered Simmons.

“You fuck,” Grif hissed but let himself fall against the floor again.

Temple’s expression darkened. “Make that twenty.”

This time Simmons forced himself to watch. Grif tensed until it looked like his back was about to break, with pained lines etched into his face to reveal the agony. When the second passed, he collapsed again, a single tremor running through him.

The hitched breathing had Simmons running forwards in the hope of reaching him, but the chain yanked at his ankle, causing him to fall an inch away from Grif.

Behind them, Temple chuckled at the sight and picked up the remote that Simmons’ had discarded in his panic. “And that’s what Simmons loves,” he mused before leaving the room.

Aside from the camera above them, this was as much privacy as they could get. Simmons ignored his own throbbing nose and crawled backwards until he could sit up. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“It hurts like a bitch.”

Simmons swallowed. “I’m sorry-“

“I know,” Grif hissed and ran a hand down his face. “It’s the asshat’s fault and you know it.” His hands touched the collar, but he quickly pulled his hands back down again. “They’re still watching, by the way,” he said, nodding towards the camera. “To make sure I don’t take it off and, well… I don’t know if they have microphones hidden too. Wouldn’t surprise me. The guy is a creep.”

“He’s crazy,” Simmons agreed, swallowing. “I don’t understand what he wants-“

“He won’t let me sleep.” Grif’s body slumped, the exhaustion gripping him as if it had claws. It became so evident after his words: the bags beneath his eyes, the ghastly skin, the trembling limbs. “He just presses the fucking button if I close my eyes. Bastard. With all his talk you would think he understood the way of the nap. ‘I did all of this for an orange soldier just like you’, my ass.”

It didn’t come as a surprise to Simmons. The moment Temple had mentioned the needs, he’d figured what sort of fate he’d arranged for Grif. It’d be a slow death. The only comfort about that horrible thought was that it prolonged their chance of being rescued.

“So,” Grif said, sagging against the wall. “How long do I have?”

“Huh?”

“It’ll kill me, right?” He was surprisingly straight-forward about it, without letting his voice waver. It just sounded dull. Tired. “Certainly feels like it.”

Something bitter had gathered in the back of Simmons’ throat. The more he swallowed, it only seemed to grow until it became a painful, constant presence. “You won’t die,” he answered truthfully. He’d read up on sleep deprivation after the first time Kimball had warned them of the torture the Feds might have made their friends suffer through. Simmons had wanted to be prepared for the worst, but he’d only managed to give himself nightmares for months, his head filling with ‘what if’s’. “It’ll… take a toll on your body. But you won’t die.”

It should be a relief, but it didn’t feel like it. Simmons was already calculating on how many hours he’d been awake; which stage had he entered?

Grif closed his eyes for a second, never daring to rest for too long. “Please tell me your plan worked.”

Simmons forced his mind to put the nightmare scenarios on hold for now. Besides, reality would show if they would become true. “Huh?”

“Did you send a message to the others?” Grif asked, failing to conceal the desperation in his tone.

The thought of Grif begging for something had Simmons feeling sick about the truth. He’d failed in each and every way. It was his fault they were stuck here. He hadn’t been able to send an SOS. Temple was going to torture Grif to hurt him.

“They’re on their way,” he finally said and prayed that he wasn’t telling Grif a lie.

* * *

From what he could gather from Grif’s slurred speech, he hadn’t slept since he’d shared a ship with Locus (which reminded Simmons that he still needed to ask just how and why Locus had joined their side. It seemed like something that should have been debated before a decision was made.). That was almost two days ago: two days that had been filled with fighting and running and panicking and being taken prisoner and tortured.

Simmons recalled their trip from Armada 8 to Earth, and in hindsight they really should have spent that moment of rest to sleep. But Grif had kept talking back then, a waterfall of words that Simmons couldn’t keep up with, and he’d kept asking about what Simmons had done, if Simmons was okay, if Simmons thought they were going to be alright.

Almost two days without sleep – not lethal, Simmons reminded himself, but definitely not good. The moment they reached micro-sleep, they’d be in trouble.

Not that they weren’t already.

“That fucking-“ Grif cursed after another round of electricity. His fingers kept twitching afterwards. “Screw Carolina and her ‘we don’t kill people’ shit – I’m gonna wring Temple’s neck. This is hell.”

“Can I help?” Simmons offered despite knowing the answer.

The sigh that left Grif’s lips mixed with a whine. There was a hollow dunk when he slammed his head against the wall again. “I just want to sleep.”

“I know.” He yanked at the chain, but it didn’t budge, not even when he used his cyborg hand. “I could help you stay awake. I could- I could keep talking to you. I- How about some fun facts-“

“I thought the goal of this was to not have me fall asleep.”

Despite everything, Grif managed to bring a small smile to his face. Simmons found comfort in that brief moment of familiar joking.

Perhaps that tone, the one that felt light and familiar, was the way to go. “Okay, so uhm- Do you think Donut would have dated Cronut if he wasn’t like, evil and stuff?”

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” Grif muttered with a hand pressed against his face.

“It got your attention.”

“Mhmm.” After a heavy sigh, Grif tried to push himself upwards. He blinked slowly before focusing on Simmons. “Donut has better taste than that.”

“They’re practically the same person.”

“So, are you like Gene?” Grif asked, smugness breaking through the exhaustion.

The question left Simmons breathless. “No. Pfft. Why would you even say that? I’d- No way. Never. You didn’t even know the guy, you should have seen what a big nerd he- _Grif_.”

While Simmons had rambled his frustrations with his fellow maroon soldier, Grif had slid down the wall, chin falling until it rested against his chest. He jolted when his name was yelled. After a long, painful exhale, he said, “I’m awake.”

Not for long, judging from the way his words slurred. “I’m sure you wouldn’t like the guy,” he said to continue the conversation.

“What’s this: fuck, marry, kill – Blues and Reds edition?” Grif snorted. “’cause I’m not doing that with them listening in. I’m sure Temple would find some way to make it boost his ego.”

The thought of them watching this, that they found amusement in their conversation, made Simmons shudder. But he’d rather they found their fun in their jokes than in their torture.

“Okay, so what else can we talk about?”

“Don’t ask me questions,” Grif groaned. His face was scrunched up in agony. “Seriously. My head feels like it’s about to explode. I- shit. Fucking shit.”

Simmons had no comfort to give him; no painkillers or reassurances. The only thing he could do was to keep talking.

So that was what he did. “Do you remember back on Iris-“

“Don’t talk about Iris,” Grif hissed. This time it wasn’t just pain that Simmons could hear; it was anger, too, and it made his stomach twist.

“I-“

“I mean it,” Grif said. “Shut it, Simmons, I’m not talking about that. You don’t- you don’t know shit.”

He couldn’t blame him. Loss of emotional control was only to be expected, but it didn’t seem to lessen the blows that came with every angry word. Still, Simmons felt at a loss, unsure of how Iris had triggered this burst of frustration.

Of course there was the fact that Simmons had left him behind.

“…I’m not sure what we’re talking about,” he said slowly. “What happened while we were-“

“Don’t,” Grif said before slamming his face against the wall, this time using enough force to make Simmons flinch.

He reached out with an unsure hand. “You shouldn’t-“

“I don’t want your advice,” Grif said. “It’s your stupid brain that got us stuck here in the first place, so thank you for that genius idea. It’s really working out great.”

Simmons was pretty sure Dylan had once said something about the truth being the strongest weapon, and now he had to agree with her. Grif’s words cut like a knife. In the small metal cell, the accusations seemed to echo.

“I saved your life, asshole,” Simmons said while lowering his shoulders. He hadn’t thought this would happen. He didn’t have an imagination vivid enough. Back then, he’d just seen Grif held at gunpoint and refused to let him die right in front of him.

But he’d failed, obviously, since the same scenario was playing out again.

“Yeah?” Grif muttered. “I’d rather have Buckey’s bullet in my brain over this.”

“Don’t say that.” He knew it was the lack of sleep. Grif didn’t know what he was saying; he couldn’t mean that. Temple might as well have shot them both. As horrible as this was, at least it gave them a chance to survive until help came.

Grif yelled out when he was shocked again. Simmons hadn’t even noticed that he’d drifted off.

His human leg groaned when he stood up, and his palm, slick with sweat, couldn’t find support against the wall. “Up,” he said, looking at Grif. “C’mon, we’re walking.”

That just earned him another groan. “No more exercise.”

“Do you want to get shocked again?”

That threat, real and unforgiving, had Grif stand up on shaking legs. The chains didn’t allow them more than a few steps forward before they had to turn around, and the image of bored animals pacing back and forth in their cage entered Simmons’ mind.

“I’d rather have Sarge’s morning training,” Grif muttered as he stumbled. “Or Wash’s.”

“Who’s worst?” Simmons asked, trying to keep his tone light. “C’mon, Grif, I’m giving you a chance to bitch.”

Multitasking required too much concentration, and Grif stood still as he thought about an answer. “Wash,” he said before dragging his feet again.

“Why?”

“The guy thinks we’re going to get better,” Grif said. “Like, super soldiers. At least Sarge’s just yelling to be mean. He isn’t stupid.”

“Well, at least my knife practice paid off. Fucking Gene.”

Simmons laughed nervously, but the sound died when he noticed that Grif wasn’t returning his weak smile. A thin layer of sweat covered his grey face. His eyes were closed.

“Do you remember back on Chorus when we talked about what to waste our time on after the war?” Simmons said softly. It’d been another one of their pillow talks before nighttime. There’d been an attack that day, he remembered, a reminder that they were in the middle of a war they weren’t sure they would make it out of. Thinking of the future had been scary back then, so they’d made jokes in order to find comfort.

Judging from Grif’s frown, he couldn’t remember. He could probably blame that on the exhaustion, too; Grif had been too excited about the idea back then to have forgotten it.

 “I’m just trying to say, the bakery isn’t a bad idea,” Simmons said. It'd sounded so stupid back then, like a joke. As if their life would ever grow peaceful enough for them to spend their time on baking. But it'd felt nice back then, despite the bickering over the amount of cheese in what they would serve. Even now, the idea still offered comfort. “You could do the pizzas, I could take care of the gluten-free flutes. Chorus has no brunch place yet and-“

The sound of Grif collapsing against the floor reminded Simmons too much of bodies falling after his bullets impaled their chest. “Grif!” he yelled but didn’t receive a reaction.

Grif hadn’t passed out; his chest was rising and falling in an uneven pattern. His hands lay clenched at his sides.

Knowing he was being ignored, Simmons let the heaviness grasp him as well. He sat down, resting his head against his knees. The pain in his throat remained. “The others will be here soon,” he said. “You could at least _try_ not to-“

“I don’t want to talk.”

The black hair had fallen in front Grif’s face, shielding his expression.

“Grif.”

He squirmed whenever his name was called, but there was never an answer. Simmons sat in silence, watching Grif being reduced to low whimpers and choked curses.

Exhaustion was plaguing him as well; a buzzing inside his skull and a numbness in his limbs. The desperation had settled inside his chest, and it echoed with the question: how much worse was Grif feeling? The silence let the buzzing grow louder, like a swarm of angry flies, and gravity pulled at his eyelids until he closed them-

Simmons woke up with his chin against his chest.

He forced himself to look at Grif lying on the ground. Grif’s fingers trembled against the cold floor, and tears fell quietly from his eyes that were wide open, glazed over in desperation.

* * *

“M’sorry.”

Grif’s hoarse voice was hardly audible.

Simmons paused his attempt to count the tiles in the ceiling and craned his neck towards his teammate instead. “What?” he asked.

He couldn’t imagine what he deserved an apology for.

“Didn’t mean it,” Grif whispered. He’d stayed curled into a ball on the floor since collapsing, constantly squirming and turning over. It felt like the times where they’d shared bedroom; Grif’s constant struggle to find the perfect position in bed. “Back on Iris. I don’t hate you.”

Simmons’ heartbeat thundered in his ears. “I know.”

“Don’t hate me,” Grif asked of him.

“I don’t hate you.”

“Don’t leave.”

Simmons squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed the bitter regret. The memory was burned into his mind; the sight of Grif walking away, his orange shape getting smaller and smaller while the sun settled in the distance. “I’m sorry I did.”

“You did?” The confusion in Grif’s voice was heartbreaking, and Simmons wondered where he thought he was; which time he believed they were stuck in.

He considered explaining their situation to him (though it was impossible to find a gentle way to tell someone that Temple was slowly torturing them) but gave up on the idea when Grif yelled again, body tensing when electricity ran through him.

Simmons wasn’t sure if Temple had just timed them to go off every fifth minute or if they were truly watching them. He wasn’t sure which option was worse. But he hadn’t discovered a certain rhythm to them yet, besides the tell-tale sign of Grif letting his eyes stay closed for too long.

 “Didn’t mean it. About Church,” Grif whispered when he had enough air to talk again. “I wanna come along.”

“Of course,” Simmons said, as if that empty promise could grant him any comfort. It was too late now. Too many mistakes had been made. “Grif,” he warned when the man had stayed quiet for too long.

Too late, too late.

Grif yelled in despair and agony, and Simmons slammed a metal fist against the wall.

* * *

 “Room service.” Temple entered the room with a cold smile and a half-filled tray. From the way he came to a sudden halt, he might have expected better reactions, but Simmons merely glared at him and Grif had given up on talking hours ago. “Oh, don’t rush to thank me.”

“We won’t,” Simmons snapped until he remembered their position. Pride was a value, sure, but Simmons would call himself pathetic everyday if they could come out of this mess. He cleared his throat and tilted his head towards their captor. “Or we will. If- Would you stop if we thanked you?”

Temple shrugged carelessly. “Probably not.” He threw a water bottle at Simmons who was not prepared; the bottle bounced off his knee before rolling away, leaving Simmons to crawl after it. “Drink up.”

He moved towards the unmoving Grif next, watching in curiosity as the bottle hit him square in the chest with only a tremble as a reaction. Simmons wasn’t sure if Temple was still counting on Grif’s eye-hand coordination to work, or if he was just unaware of what he was putting him through. “He isn’t looking too good,” Temple said, smacking his lips.

The promise of water had Grif opening his eyes, reaching out with a shaking hand that couldn’t manage to remove the lid.

Simmons had already downed half of his bottle, trying to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth. He froze when Temple crouched before Grif.

“Go away,” Simmons hissed on Grif’s behalf.

“I’m trying to keep him alive,” Temple said, tearing the lid off in a quick movement before pressing the bottle against Grif’s lips, using enough force to send his head tilting backwards. “So yes, do thank me.”

Simmons watched as Grif let himself be desperate enough for water to deal with the humiliation. The liquid trickled down his chin to reach his stained undersuit, and his chest heaved suddenly, the gasp masked by a gurgling noise.

“You’re going to kill him,” Simmons said. The statement should probably scare him more than it did, but instead it only spread a numbness in his chest.

Temple didn’t seem to care either. “It’s just some water.”

“The electric shocks,” Simmons explained slowly. He didn’t fail to notice the urgent glance Grif sent in his direction, nor the look of blame in his eyes as he realized he’d been lied to. “Grif has a weak heart. You’re going to kill him.”

“Oh.” Temple finally pulled away, letting the nearly empty bottle stand on the floor. “Well, that sucks for you.”

The lack of any trace of emotion in his voice left Simmons gaping as he searched for an argument. “You don’t want to kill him,” he said, voice wavering. “You said- you were the one who talked about orange soldiers-“

“ _An_ orange soldier. Not him,” Temple corrected him sharply as he spun around. “And don’t throw your morals at me. I mean, who killed Gene? Oh, that’s right. You did. _Murderer_.”

At Temple’s loud snort, Simmons felt the fury building up in his chest again. The sensation wasn’t common, but it was familiar; it’d been the same anger that had felt like fire in veins and had made him grit his teeth whenever Gene had been in his line of sight. It’d driven him to pick up his knife; it’d craved for him to plunge it through Gene’s visor to make him shut up. To kill him.

And he had. With Grif’s help.

Now, Simmons realized, he would stab Temple right in the face without hesitating, if only he had the chance.

“Says you,” Grif groaned, speaking for the first time since Temple disturbed them.

The Blue paid him no mind as he crouched near Simmons instead, reaching for the tray to shove the single sandwich towards him. “Here.”

Simmons glared at the food, ignoring the way his stomach growled in excitement at the sight. “Where’s Grif’s?” he asked and didn’t receive an answer.

Temple’s smile never changed as he pressed the remote, looking over his shoulder to call out, “Don’t fall asleep on us.”

If Simmons hadn’t felt sick before, Grif’s cry was enough to make him nauseous. The sandwich suddenly no longer looked appealing, and he stared past Temple’s broad shoulders, wondering if he had a chance to slide it towards Grif. He needed it more. The man was always hungry but this-

Temple knew which sore spots to hit, and it made Simmons wonder how similar their orange soldier had been to Grif.

“Don’t even try,” Temple said and let his finger hover over the button. “Eat.”

Two different urges had Simmons feeling torn; his body desired the nutrition given to him while his growing panic wanted to throw it all up again. “I don’t understand,” Simmons said while forcing a bite of bread down his throat.

“Not that smart, then,” Temple replied. His eyes kept darting back to Grif to see if he would react to their conversation, but he remained unmoving, eyes forced open.

“You’re doing this for fun?” Simmons asked in despair.

“Well, you and your team took away the only purpose I’ve had for years, so…” Temple sighed as he removed the empty tray. He let his body drop into the awaiting chair. “We’re all waiting now.”

“For our friends to show up?”

Temple spread out his arms. “I guess. I bet your reporter told the whole world about us. And thanks to you we lost our home. I can’t stop them from tracking us down. But I can give you two a slow death. And teach you a lesson. I mean, isn’t it awful to see your best friend die right in front of you? It’s something that just sticks with you, you know. Makes you want to see the whole world burn.”

There was no dark gleam in Temple’s eyes as he pressed the button. No smugness, or anger, or excitement. Just a lifeless stare as he watched the limbs tremble.

“Let him sleep,” Simmons begged. “Just- four hours. I can- I’m sure- Whatever you want I can give-“

“Just what can you give me?” Temple asked. The following silence was filled with Grif’s ragged breathing. Temple turned his head to look at him with distant eyes. “Right. Nothing matters now. So yeah, let me have this.”

* * *

Things had been horrible before, but the amount of awfulness managed to increase with Temple watching them intensely. He remained silent, head tilting in curiosity and finger twitching whenever he made Grif wake up with a pained howl.

Without his helmet, Temple had no way to hide looking as ill as Grif. Pale skin, hollowed cheeks, hair plastered against his forehead. The angry lines that pulled at his eyebrows faintly reminded Simmons of Church’s constant annoyance, but the ice in Temple’s eyes was far from the anger the AI had unleashed on them.

Sometimes Temple’s hand would brush against the pistol on his thigh. Maybe it was meant to be a warning, or perhaps he was just fighting the urge to take them both out now.

“Please leave,” Simmons said as he sank against the wall.

“Why?” Temple’s face split into an empty grin as he turned towards him. “Oh my god, are we getting closer to the love confession?”

“Shut up.”

It came out weak, Simmons was aware of that, and it only earned him another chuckle from Temple. The Blue called out, “Hey, Grif, do you have any last-minute reveals?”

Grif said nothing. Exhaustion had robbed him of the ability to talk hours ago, and Simmons had watched in frightful curiosity as the micro-sleep began to set in; Grif falling asleep for seconds before jerking awake, sometimes by himself, other times by the unpleasant help of the collar.

At least he remained unaware of Temple’s hovering. It was a small comfort, however, and Simmons found himself succumbing to loneliness as he was left to face the leader of the Blues and Reds on his own.

Temple pushed the button again, and Simmons was sure his nose picked up the scent of something burnt. The thought made him shudder. “Leave him alone,” he said weakly.

Temple tsked at Grif who remained silent, save from the whines that followed each inhale. “They say silence is worth a thousand words, but I feel like you are being very rude right now,” Temple said.

“He can’t talk- Do you even know anything about sleep deprivation?”

“I figured this would be a case study.”

Simmons shook his head, over and over, and swallowed the bitter guilt. He was the reason why they were here. He’d made the choice to step in between Grif and Buckey, he’d failed to imitate Gene. He’d left Grif behind, he’d been quiet, he’d said the wrong things to Dylan, he’d messed up everything that mattered. The victory over Temple felt faint now when the villain was dragging them with him into the awaiting doom.

“Please,” he said, despite knowing that there was nothing left Temple could want.

The man didn’t seem to hear him with his thousand-yard state. “Would you shoot him?” Temple eventually asked, voice as low as a whisper. He trailed a fingernail along his pistol. “If he asked you to shoot him, would you do it?”

Simmons had no answer to that. He wasn’t sure, he didn’t know. He was just grateful that Grif had lost the ability to speak, because the thought of him begging for Simmons to put him out of his misery had his heart breaking a thousand times over. He remembered the blood spilling back in Blood Gulch, when Grif’s insides had been revealed to him and he’d been dying slowly in the dry grass.

He’d given what he could back then – his heart, his arm, whatever Grif might need – but Temple had stripped them both naked of comfort, leaving them helpless to see each other being taken by despair; Grif dying, and Simmons awaiting death the moment he’d been forced to suffer as Temple had once had.

Simmons had nothing left to give.

The sob that left his throat was raw and shameful, and the sound had Temple turning in his chair, snapping out of his numb trance. “Oh my god, that’s melodramatic,” he spat and narrowed his eyes. “Need a tissue?”

When Simmons didn’t regain control of his tears, Temple came closer to listen to him heave for air through his sobs. The Blue rolled his eyes. “Look at you, crying all over the floor-“

Simmons leapt, fist reaching out to meet Temple’s nose the moment he came close enough. The force had him stumbling backwards, hand clutching his face as blood spilled through his fingers. “Ow, _fuck_!”

The remote had fallen from his grip, skittering along the floor. Simmons jumped for it with outstretched fingers, and he didn’t feel the impact as he slammed against the metal. The chain held him back, an inch from the remote. Despair grabbed him, cold and unforgiving, but he kept pulling, straining, _reaching_ , until something in his ankle cracked and his fingers brushed against the plastic-

Temple snatched the remote with a bloodstained hand and stumbled out of the room, blood and curses spilling from his mouth.

Drops of crimson marked the place where the remote had been, right in front of Simmons’ outstretched hand. He stared at the blood, feeling his chest burn after the sudden rush of energy. But now the adrenaline was fading, leaving him tired and sore and hurting-

He turned his head, watching sparks fly from his ankle where the limb had been pulled loose, cracking the metal to reveal the wires and oil underneath. The chain was digging into the crack, letting his foot hang at an unnatural angle.

Simmons stared and wondered why he didn’t feel any pain; if his artificial nerves had short-circuited or if adrenaline was still running through him.

With shaking fingers he reached for the chain and set his jaw before _pulling_.

* * *

The ground is sand. Burning. Warm from the sun. Sizzling against his back.

It leaves him thirsty. Throat cracking open. He wants to call for Kai, telling her to share the soda before it’s all gone. He’s thirsty. Hungry. It’s hot.

There’s sand, he’s sure. It’s tickling his fingers, crawling beneath his shirt. It claws at his skin and dries him out. He’s cracking open. Sand runs inside.

Someone is calling his name, he thinks, but it’s far away. He can’t hear; he’s hearing too much; it’s loud. There are swarms buzzing inside his head, flies singing. It’s deafening.

He can see them in the grey ceiling. It falls apart, and flies crawl from the cracks, closing in on him.

It’s loud.

The sand burns. He squirms, rolls over, but he can’t. His body is too heavy; his body is gone. It hurts, he can’t lie still, he can’t move.

It’s a beach, he thinks, but there’s no water. He’s back in Hawaii, Kai is calling. No. He’s on Iris, the sun is staring at him.

He stares back. He’s thirsty. The sand hurts.

He’s inside, he’s staring at his bedroom ceiling. He waits. They’re not coming back.

He’s so tired.

* * *

Simmons had lost Grif an increasing amount of times. He still remembered the sensation of Grif slipping from his grasp on Sidewinder, the feeling of the cold wind when they took off their helmets afterwards to see the relief in each other’s face.

In the battle against Hargrove, Simmons had received two bullets to his mechanic chest and his fake heart had stuttered. His vision had flickered along the edge, and all sounds had been muted, and he’d cried, believing that this was it. He’d quietly hoped for them to send a letter to his dad, to let him know that he died a hero despite it all. He’d hoped for Sarge to go easier on Grif. He’d hoped for Donut to make him laugh again. He’d woken up in the hospital to Grif holding his hand so tightly that it hurt.

On Iris he’d lost him so easily. Grif had slipped away without Simmons noticing. Had it been building up for a while? Had Grif never cared while they slept together in the new condos? Had he not cared as they splashed water in each other’s face in the water park? When he finally spoke, he’d pulled himself away, and Simmons had stayed quiet and never reached out.

In the ship, the weeks afterwards, he’d wondered what would have happened if he’d taken Grif’s hand.

The chain was biting into his foot now. The sparks had died a long time ago, and a puddle of dark liquid had gathered under the limb while Simmons kept mangling it. He couldn’t get the chain off, but with his cyborg limb half torn off, he’d expanded his limited movement.

“Grif,” he called and reached out. Sweat spilled from his forehead as he pushed himself forward on his stomach.

His hand kept shaking as he listened to the unintelligible noises from Grif’s mouth. They were only broken by a sharp cry every time the collar would spark with Temple’s anger.

Simmons wasn’t sure what Grif was seeing. He didn’t reply to his name, and at this point Simmons wasn’t even sure that he could hear him. But maybe, he hoped, if he could touch him, he could pull him back and provide a little bit of needed comfort-

Simmons’ fingers brushed against Grif’s-

And then the ship tilted, causing the metal walls to groan. Simmons gasped as he fell forward, more pressure being added to the mangled ankle. The tearing sound was accompanied with a searing pain shooting up his leg, and he groaned, eyes watering in agony.

Gravity no longer pulled him towards Grif, and Simmons realized that the ship must have stabilized itself. He didn’t have the time to wonder what this truly meant, as he opened his eyes to see that the chain had nearly buried itself into the metal of his foot. The sticky oil had drifted with him, leaving a trail behind as it reached the rest of his body, staining his undersuit.

Simmons groaned as he tried to push himself up. He’d been so close, he’d almost touched-

Grif had fallen against the wall, pulled away from Simmons by the gravity. Too far from him now, too still-

“Grif!” he croaked because if the man would only wake, if he could crawl back towards Simmons-

The gunshots in the distance echoed inside the room.

Temple’s time of waiting was over.

Simmons’ mind registered the uncertainty (who would find them first? Temple or their rescuers?) but he was too tired to care. He let himself collapse into the pool of oil that he found to be disgustingly warm.

The door slid open.

“Did somebody order a rescue _\- Holy shit_.”

Simmons didn’t stare at Tucker. His eyes were set on the sword by his side. Faintly, he understood that this was important, but he couldn’t quite connect the dots-

“Get it off,” he gasped and almost howled in frustration when the Blue cut off his chain. “Not that-“

He didn’t finish his own sentence as he instead began to crawl, pulling himself forward with frantic arm movements until he reached Grif. The man was heavy and limp in his arms as he pulled him closer, letting him lean on his oil-stained chest while he fumbled with the collar.

The smell of burnt skin made him sick, and his metal hand grasped around the box, crushing it before tearing it off. Sparks appeared next to torn wires.

The collar itself didn’t budge, and Simmons pulled at it frantically until he discovered the small padlock. “The key,” he gasped at Tucker who’d crouched next to them, brows furrowing in confusion and horror. “Temple has it.”

Tucker, paler than before he’d stepped into the room, backed away. “Temple. Right-“

“Find it,” Simmons begged. “Please.”

The way his voice broke had Tucker running out of the cell, leaving them alone as Simmons did his best to adjust the heavy deadweight that was Grif. The pain in his ankle had faded into a dull ache as he pulled him close.

“It’s okay, Grif,” he muttered into greasy, black hair. “You can sleep.”

Grif didn’t stir, but Simmons could feel his breath against his throat. It felt right the way his head rested securely beneath his chin. The weight was familiar, and so was the warmth, and Simmons tugged the heap of limp limbs closer to embrace it all.

Grif’s skin was clammy, cold and warm all at once, but he was solid and real, and Simmons could hold him while he slept.

He rested his head against Grif’s while he waited.

“Don’t wake him up,” he said as Carolina and Tucker shoved up to peel off the collar and reveal the burnt skin beneath. Simmons just held him closer. “Please don’t wake him up.”

* * *

Grif opened his eyes. Such a task had always been hard, but now it seemed almost impossible. Someone might as well have sewn his eyelids shut. But the sight that awaited him made it easier.

He saw familiar colors. All the different shades of red and blue, with the exception of the color cobalt.

Alarm rang in his chest, but his limbs were too heavy to move, and it faded away again when he saw the colors were warm. Not cold.

There were voices, too, but they were too far away, and he was too tired to try to listen. Just the thought of getting up to deal with it made him groan, and he sank deeper into the soft mattress beneath him. He was pretty sure he heard the word ‘hospital’, but exhaustion beat his worries at the moment.

He just wanted to sleep.

There was a pleasant source of warmth against him, along with a cold touch on his cheek. Like a cyborg hand resting against it.

Simmons, he tried to say, but his tongue didn’t work right, and the words kept hiding in the back of his throat. Something must have left his mouth, however, as the body next to him shifted.

Arms encircled him, pulling him closer until he could _feel_ the familiar whirring that was Simmons’ heartbeat.

 “Hey, Grif,” Simmons muttered, face nuzzled against his neck. Pleasantly warm in Simmons’ steady embrace, Grif let himself feel safe. “Let’s sleep late.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, AmateurScribes! I hope you had a great day! I know that this is almost a week too late, but it ended up being wayyyyyy longer than expected. But I hope you like the glorious Grif angst XD
> 
> And a big thank you to the wonderful Hazk who heard I had a 12k long one-shot and offered to beta it. I owe you everything.
> 
> Thanks for reading, feel free to share your thoughts in a comment.
> 
> As always: English isn't my native language so I apologize for any mistakes, and you can find me as riathedreamer on tumblr and twitter.


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